The Proposal
by Mint Pearl Voice
Summary: Tricky situations call for desperate alibis. Holmes proposes to Irene for the sake of a case. Oneshot.


A forged will. An unexpectedly spooked horse. And a nobleman who might just have murdered his father to gain wealth.

"Have you seen that hat?"

"Plumes are terribly in the mode this season, I've been told."

"When I was riding my carriage through Hyde Park this morning, I happened to encounter the most interesting rumor…"

Holmes leans back in his chair and lets the babble of the ton wash over him- anything even remotely related to the case will stand out like the one untuned note in a violin's chord.

Across the room, Lord Bramson, the object of his investigation, rests his hand on a woman's elbow, leaning in to diminish the space between their bodies. (Blonde curls, emerald necklace of dubious quality: Emily Clearbrooke, the daughter of a noveau riche industrial tycoon.) Emily giggles, putting a gloved hand to her mouth, as Bramson ushers her through a doorway.

Right, then. He has precisely half an hour.

Holmes raises an eyebrow at the woman across from him; Irene Adler, dressed in a floor-length gown of lavender silk, rises from her armchair. "I'll be right back," she says, gliding away. He waits exactly two minutes and three seconds before departing after her.

With the confidence of someone who's memorized a building's topography, she leads him through the kitchen and to a richly decorated corridor. He tries not to think what she might have done to obtain access to the unscrupulous Bramson's private rooms.

"This room is his study," she says in a low, breathless voice, pulling the door open. The Oriental-style room shows signs of a servant's recent presence; nevertheless, for someone so preoccupied with matters of finance, Bramson places surprisingly little emphasis on proper organization.

He rifles through a stack of papers, memorizing their order. "What are we looking for?"

Irene flips through a notebook, scanning each page in a fraction of an instant. "Anything with the family crest on it- azure, annulet or, double-headed snake proper. His father's horse was named Fleur-de-Lys, and-"

"Why, Lord Branson, you're ever so charming!"

"Please, Miss Clearbrooke, call me Gabriel."

Footsteps and voices and Irene's breath catches in her chest. If the study occupied a place on the ground floor, or if Lord Bramson lived in London proper, she'd be out the window by now, but jumping out a fourth-floor window in the middle of the countryside? Madness, absolute madness. She turns toward Holmes, what-are-we-going-to-do emblazoning panic on her features-

Holmes drops to one knee just as the lord and his heiress arrive at the open doorway.

"Irene," he says smoothly, "will you marry me?"

The ring slips onto her finger.

Brilliant, her raised eyebrows and genuine smile convey.

His more smug expression replies: I know.

"Oh, of course!" Irene replies, flinging herself into his arms. For the sake of the charade, she takes hold of his face and kisses him passionately.

The footsteps move on.

Later, after Bramson has toasted the happy couple (and the receipts in his desk drawer show that he's planning to propose to Miss Clearbrooke, then murder her with poisonous gas piped into the guestroom and make it look like accidental self-asphyxiation,) the guests proceed out to their conveyances, many expressing admiration for the beauty of the starlit sky.

"Sherlock, darling?"

Barely concealed annoyance: 82.5 percent. Not looking at her, he answers, "Yes, dear?"

"This ring… it won't come off."

Holmes feigns innocence. "Well, the jeweler won't be open until tomorrow morning at the earliest; we'll go there, and you can swap it for your engagement ring. That would satisfy you, would it not?"

"No, I mean-" Irene leans in. To anyone else, she seems to be whispering sweet nothings into her fiancé's ear. "We have all the evidence we need and more. Do you really intend to proceed with this- this ridiculous charade?"

"Yes."

Their carriage pulls up to the front walk, drowning out Irene's involuntary gasp.

"For the sake of the case, at least," Holmes finishes, seemingly oblivious.

Irene's eyes narrow. Then she smiles. "All right, then. For the sake of the case."

And, for the sake of the case, she curls up against him for the entire journey back to London.


End file.
